


Lost Highway

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Gen, Season/Series 05, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-13
Updated: 2010-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, he's going to get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Highway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



> Written for Destina on her birthday. Apparently, my adoration for her makes me do things I really didn't expect.
> 
> Note: This was written during the summer after season 5, when all we knew was that Dean was living with Lisa and Ben, and Sam was creeping around outside stalking him. Now AU, of course.

* * *

"Destiny can't be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination."  
_—Castiel, "In the Beginning"_

* * *

In Cicero, Indiana, Sam Winchester felt the stirring of the wind and heard the faint rustle of wings. It was more than most men would have heard. The flicker of the street lamp was the more obvious herald.

Sam knew, too well, who it would be, but he spared Castiel a glance and a nod of greeting despite the fact that he suspected Castiel had come here to kill him. They owed each other that much.

"You shouldn't be here," Castiel said.

"Neither should you."

"That's beside the point."

Sam took in his familiar silhouette. Only the trenchcoat was different, and not by much. "Still wearing Jimmy, I see."

"Not still. Again. I restored him to his family. He was willing to let me borrow his body one last time."

"I get it," Sam said, his gaze shifting to the house across the street. "Sometimes it's hard to let go."

"You were right." Castiel nodded toward the window, where Dean, Lisa and Ben all sat around the dinner table, looking for all the world like a happy family—if you didn't look too closely at Dean's face, or notice the whiskey he drank like water. "He is getting better. They're good for him." At Sam's look, Castiel corrected himself. "They will be. In time."

"It's been two years," Sam said. "And I still hear him. Every damn night. Don't tell me he's ever going to be the same."

Castiel didn't argue. "What are you going to do?" he asked instead.

"What you should have done. What I would have done back then, if I could have."

"Sam. You know what you're risking. There are a thousand ways this could go wrong."

"Don't you think I know that?" Through the window, Sam watched his brother keep his promise even though it was killing him. "He's worth it."

"It's my job to stop you," Castiel said with regret.

"Why?" Sam demanded. "Because it's Dean's destiny to pay the price for every fucked up thing that's happened to us since we were born?"

"I used to believe in destiny. You changed that."

"Then walk away."

Castiel's look held reproach. "You know me better than that."

"It won't be easy," Sam warned him. "To stop me."

"You may be right. Lucifer is still strong in you."

Sam let the strength of his own power flow near the surface, and Castiel shivered, as if a cold wind had blown across his neck. Sam said, "He's not the one you should worry about."

As stubborn as ever, Castiel pressed on. "You won't end the war. You'll start it all over again. If it's not Dean, it'll be someone else."

_And it was written that the first seal will be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell—_

"I know. I'm ready for that." It wouldn't be Dean, Sam thought. Not this time. And when Sam erased Lilith from existence, there wouldn't be enough of her left to open a pothole.

They watched Dean in silence. Finally Castiel said, "You would take him from me. Even the memory of him. We might never meet."

Sam wasn't made of stone. "I'm sorry about that. I am. But it's worth it. You can't tell me it's not."

Castiel studied him sidelong. "You and your brother," he said. "No power of Heaven or Hell could ever keep you from each other."

"So, don't try." Sam straightened, setting his shoulders. "I don't want to hurt you, Cas. You loved him once."

"Some things don't change," Castiel admitted. "You, of all people, should know that." As if it were an afterthought, he confessed, "I hear him, too."

"Then for his sake, don't get in my way."

Castiel laid a hand on his arm, surprising Sam, the knowing pressure of his gaze brief but intense. "You couldn't have saved him. From the moment he sold his soul, there was nothing you could do. It's not your fault."

Sam drew a breath. The pain still cut deep. "You really believe that?"

"I wouldn't lie to you. Not any more."

"Even if it's true, it doesn't matter. This is what I have to do."

Castiel nodded. "I thought you'd say that." He let his hand fall.

It was then that Sam got what Castiel was trying to tell him. _From the moment he sold his soul._ "You're not going to try and stop me," he said. "You never were."

Castiel shrugged. "I've already broken more rules than I can count because of him. So have you." His eyes strayed back to Dean. "Besides, I owe you."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Now, that? I never thought I'd hear you say."

Castiel turned to him, then, and held out his hand. "Goodbye, Sam Winchester." Sam hesitated before he took it; Castiel's grip was as chilly and dry as Sam remembered it. "Take care of him."

"I will."

Sam allowed himself one last look at his brother. He began to draw his energy inward, a deep, shivering hum in the air, the street lights flickering and a cold wind starting to swirl around him. He closed his eyes and spread his hands at his sides, palms up, gathering all the power in his body—a bottomless wellspring of it, enough to bend the very fabric of space and time to his will. Castiel stepped back, giving him room. "They'll come after you harder than ever," Castiel warned him. "I'll do what I can to protect you from this end, but it won't be much."

Sam smiled at him. He felt light, free, made of starstuff, like he could explode out into the universe in a burst of light. "Don't worry," he said. "This time, I'm going to get it right."

* * *

Grief-spent and worn out from tears, Dean felt cold inside. Dead inside. But a cinder burned in his belly, and it drove him onward, pushing his foot to the floor and his heart into a fierce, fast rhythm that felt like destiny. Everything he needed was in the trunk. He knew what he had to do—had always known, it seemed, that it would come down to this. Just please, God, let it work.

Moonlight slanted through the dead trees across the place where two roads met. Gravel slipped under the tires—and then he slammed on the brakes as, between one breath and the next, Sam stood in the road in front of him.

He knew a long, awful moment of gut-wrenching panic. The tires gripped the earth, but he was going too fast—he was going too goddamned fast. She started to slide. He fought the wheel, struggling to keep her under control as he plummeted toward Sam, standing there like he was freaking Superman or something—

—like he was Superman, and not _dead,_ not a corpse lying on a dirty cot a mile from here.

The car finally slid to a stop, rocking under him. Dean barely noticed it. A rage like nothing he'd ever known burst fire-bright in his chest, making his hands shake and his breath shudder as he scrambled for the plastic jug behind Sam's seat. God_dammit_. They were not going to use Sam against him now, not while Dean was still breathing. Tears of fury and grief threatened to blind him, but he choked them back and slammed his way out of the car.

He crossed the distance between them in furious strides and flung holy water at the thing wearing Sam, aiming for its face. Its skin sizzled, the smell of brimstone rising; the tiny, traitorous shred of hope evaporated.

"You get the fuck out of him right now you son of a bitch, or I swear to God, I don't care what it takes, I will spend the rest of my existence making sure you regret it." He seized Sam's shirt and shook the demon in his brother's skin, willing its eyes to go black, red, yellow—anything but the way it was looking at him right now. All thought of a deal deserted him. His voice shook, but he got the words out, growling them into the bastard's face. "Anybody else, you hear me? Not him."

"Dean."

Dean grimaced, teeth bared in a snarl of wordless, naked fury, and he shook the demon harder, spinning them to shove his brother's body up against the car. Sam felt alive. His skin was cool where Dean's fist pressed against his throat, but Dean could see his pulse beating. Blood trickled from his nose—Dean hadn't hit him, had he? If he said Dean's name again, if he kept looking at Dean like that, Dean was going to lose it worse than he already had. _Goddammit, Sammy, don't do this to me,_ was all he could think. _Don't fucking do this. I can't take it._

"You want me? Fine. You can fucking have me. But you get the fuck out of him. You leave him alone." His voice broke despite his efforts to stop it. "You leave him alone, you sonofabitch—"

"Dean. It's me." Sam's big hands came up and seized his biceps. "It's me. Hey."

Dean's chest caught in a tearing sob. It only made him more furious, and he slammed the demon back, throwing more holy water in its face. The water was cold and soaked through Dean's sleeve, glistened on Sam's skin, dripped down his neck into his shirt. Tiny blisters rose wherever the water touched him, but his eyes still didn't change. They still looked like Sam's. Despite the scream of denial locked in his head, Dean couldn't help the way his instincts told him to throw the plastic jug away and stop hurting Sam.

It should have hurt him more, Dean realized with a sinking dread. Even as he watched, the small blisters were healing themselves, the smell of brimstone dissipating. Sam—the demon—wasn't fighting. His mouth had drawn tight with pain, but his eyes were for Dean, deep with a sorrow that felt as old as the world. He still held on to Dean like an embrace, and Dean became aware that Sam was holding him up, that his knees were threatening to give out on him. He hadn't slept or eaten in four days, and it all caught up with him now, a fierce desire to let go, let darkness swallow him and let this demon-Sam do with him what he would. There was no getting out of this for him. Sam was gone. Did it matter what happened to him now?

"Dean," Sam said again, and his heart beat against Dean's fist. It said his name like Sam did. Its eyes were Sam's. "Listen to me. I know it doesn't make sense. But it's really me."

"Like hell. The holy water—"

"I can explain. You're not going to like it, but I can." The tenderness in his gaze burned into Dean's skin. "Look at me. You know me."

A shiver ran through Dean. He couldn't let himself listen to this. But the seed of doubt had taken hold.

Sudden dizziness made him close his eyes. "You're lying." The fight had already gone out of him, and he knew it. He tried to pull himself together, tried to remember the words of the exorcism that should have been the first, the only thing he'd said to this monster wearing his brother's face. But that had always been Sam's gig.

"How long's it been since you slept?" Sam asked, and Dean let out a soft, sharp laugh. He shoved himself free before he betrayed himself further. Out of Sam's grip, he swayed.

"Just kill me already. I don't even care."

Sam pushed himself away from the car. "Kind of ruin the effect I was going for. I came here to stop you from killing yourself, you idiot." He yanked the passenger side door open and grabbed hold of Dean's arm again, steering him into the passenger seat. "Come on, sit down before you fall down." He seemed taller, Dean thought numbly, and bigger, if that was even possible. It registered as an afterthought that Sam was wearing a different shirt—a blue one Dean had never seen before. Awesome. Somewhere between that run-down shack and a dirt crossroads in the middle of nowhere, Sammy'd found time to go shopping.

Dean did as he was told. It seemed the easiest thing to do. Sam's 9-millimeter was in the glove compartment, though Dean made no move to go for it. His .45 was still in his waistband under his jacket, easier to reach. Anything that burned when holy water touched it wasn't likely to run from a gun—but it might come in handy if the thing wearing his brother gave Dean half a chance to off himself.

"Don't even think about it," Sam said, crouching in the dirt by Dean's feet. Dean was tempted to throw the last of the holy water in its face, if for no other reason than to wipe off that too-familiar expression of exasperation. There didn't seem to be much point, though. Blisters or no, Sam had barely flinched from the stuff.

Not Sam, he told himself, trying not to look it in the eye. Really, really not. Even if he did look at Dean exactly the same way. Even if his hands were warm now, and steady on Dean's knees.

"Jesus, you piss me off, you know that?" Sam said, and it even sounded like him.

"Yeah, why's that?" What the hell, Dean thought. Humor the crazy people—God knew he qualified.

"Sell your soul to a demon? That's the best you could come up with?"

It sparked the ragged shreds of Dean's temper. "What the hell was I supposed to do?"

"How about not be a complete, selfish jerk, for starters?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did it ever occur to you," the demon said, and it was such a good impression of Sam at the end of his patience that Dean's heart gave a rough clutch of recognition, "what it would do to me when I found out? What I might do to try and save you?"

"You were never supposed to find out," Dean protested.

"Yeah, well—I did. In like, two days. And I spent the rest of the year you had left going out of my mind because of it."

Dean frowned at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The moonlight shone on Sam's face, cast up at him from where he crouched at Dean's feet. His hair was wet. And longer than Dean remembered. His face looked different, too, Dean realized. Older. Like he'd been through Hell, and back again.

Sam held his gaze, intent. "Dean, it really is me. A future version of me, from five years from now. I know it sounds crazy. But you have to believe me. This, what you're doing, it's a mistake."

Dean stared at him, his head spinning. Sam rose to his full height, and it hadn't been Dean's imagination—he was taller, and broader across the shoulders. The size he'd put on in the last year had only been a promise of what was to come.

There was a rushing sound in Dean's ears. "It's either that, or eat my gun. And where the hell does that leave you?"

"Better off than where I'll be if you go through with this deal, trust me."

And in spite of himself, against every warning screaming in his head, Dean believed him. It was crazy, and it didn't explain the holy water. But his gut told him the truth: this was Sam. Five-years-from-now Sam. "You look okay to me," he said, fighting vertigo even though he was sitting down. _It worked. I saved him._ But what the hell could bend time like that? What wasn't Sam telling him?

Sam gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "You have to take my word for it. I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for a long, long time. Neither have you. And it's all because of this, right here, tonight. That's why I had to stop you."

It hit Dean all at once. He hunched in on himself, feeling like he'd been sucker-punched. "Fuck." When that didn't help, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands. "Sammy, fuck, I—" His chest locked up, a sob fighting to get free.

In a second, Sam knelt again, his hands finding Dean's arms and gripping there, sliding up. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here."

Dean had cried so much the last few days, he'd thought he had no tears left in him. The rush of them caught him hard. "I didn't know what else to do," he choked out.

"I know. Shh, hey. Don't. It's okay." Sam wrapped his arm around Dean's neck, and Dean, despite himself, leaned into it and hid his face against Sam's shoulder. He grabbed on to Sam's jacket just like he had three days ago. Three days ago, when Sam had— Memory rushed over him, but this time, Sam held on just as tight. He smelled like ash, and lightning, and Dean didn't care. Sam said, "It's gonna be okay."

Dean choked a wet laugh. "Is it?"

Sam's hand closed on the back of his neck, and he pulled back, looking hard into Dean's eyes. "It is if you promise me—no deals. Not tonight. Not ever. Okay? Promise me that."

Dean searched his face, looking for the Sam he knew. The differences were hard to define. But no one knew Sam better than Dean did, and he was sure: this was his brother, nobody else. "Yeah," he whispered, though his stomach hurt with the feeling that he was betraying the Sam who still lay back in that cabin. "Okay. I promise."

It was Sam's turn to tear up. "Okay," he said.

And then his face changed. Something was wrong.

Fear sluiced over Dean. "Sam?"

Sam grunted in pain, or surprise. His hand tightened, and then he let go of Dean and stumbled back. Dean reached out and caught him by the shoulder of his jacket. "Sammy, what—"

A faint wind lifted Sam's hair from his face. He cradled one arm to his stomach and overbalanced, too far for Dean to stop him from falling on his ass. "Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean said, pushing forward to kneel in front of him, one hand on his leg. "What just happened?"

"I—" Sam looked up, his eyes wide. "He's gone."

"Come again?"

"Dean—" Sam clutched at his arm. "He's gone. Lucifer's gone." His whole face changed, all the tension gone and wonder dawning in his eyes.

Dean scoffed. "Lucifer, really." He searched Sam's face, and realized it wasn't a joke. "Really?" He swallowed. "Guess that explains the holy water."

A laugh on the edge of hysteria escaped Sam. "Told you you wouldn't like it."

Dean realized he was on his knees in the dirt between his brother's legs, clinging to Sam's jacket, afraid to let go for fear he'd wake up back in that cabin, alone. Sam looked around like he was seeing the world for the first time. He took a deep breath and let it out, then laughed again.

Dean sank back on his haunches. He was starting to shake with reaction. "Mind sharing with the rest of the class?"

Sam looked at him then, and the pure joy and relief on his face made Dean's heart kick. He hadn't seen Sam look like that since—ever. Not even when he was a little kid. "Dean, you did it. Your promise. You kept it. You're going to keep it." He scrambled to his feet and offered a hand to Dean, who took it without thinking. Sam helped him up. "I should have known you would."

"So, what does that mean?"

"It means Lucifer's back in his cage. Now, it's up to us to make sure he stays there."

Dean let go and straightened away. He rubbed a hand over his face, leaning against the car's door frame. Sam—his brother, Sam—was still dead. The weight of that settled on him again, despite the live and in-color Sam a few feet away. "You gotta give me a minute to catch up, man. This is all kind of a lot to take in."

"Yeah, I can imagine," Sam said, though nothing was likely to bring him down any time soon, and Dean couldn't blame him. Lucifer had to be a hell of a passenger to carry around. How that had come to pass was just one of the things Dean planned on getting out of Sam in the very near future. "Believe me, I know," Sam was going on. "The time thing can make your head hurt. But, Dean, we don't have long. We have to get to Bobby's, or we'll miss Jake opening the gate."

"Jake? You mean that kid who stabbed you in the back?"

Sam looked pained. "You're right, this is going to take some getting used to."

"So, you're staying," Dean said, his voice rougher than he would have liked.

"What? Yeah." Sam's brows knit. "Did you think I wouldn't? I mean, that's kind of the whole point. To do things differently this time around. Keep you from going to Hell. Hopefully, save some lives." He swallowed. "Not make the same mistakes I made before."

Dean nodded. "That's good. Yeah. I can see how that would be a good thing."

"Dean, what is it?"

Dean shook his head and pushed away from the car, starting around toward the driver's seat. "Nothing. No, that's good. I mean, I'd love to get a shot at the bastard who stabbed you, don't get me wrong."

"Dean." Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Hey. Don't do that. Talk to me."

Dean turned back. He looked down at Sam's hand; Sam got the message and let him go, backing off half a step. Reluctantly, Dean looked up. "Come on, man. You show up here acting like everything's fine, everything's hunky dory, like we should just pick up where we left off, when you're obviously—" He gestured.

"Obviously what?"

Dean gave him a hard look. "Time travel? Walking around with freaking Lucifer inside you, like it's nothing?" He felt cold, but couldn't stop himself. "What happened to you in Cold Oak, Sam? What did that bastard do to you?"

A series of expressions flickered over Sam's face. Dean couldn't read all of them, but anger was definitely in there, and hurt. He took a step toward Dean, and Dean thought things were going to get ugly—but then Sam stopped himself. He closed his eyes, visibly getting himself under control. "You're right," he said at last. "You're right. I owe you the truth—the whole truth. That's one mistake I'm not going to make again."

He paced a few steps away. After a minute, he took a deep breath and shook his head, and Dean knew whatever he was going to say, it was bad.

What he said was, "It didn't happen in Cold Oak. It happened when I was a baby. Azazel came into my nursery when I was six months old, and he bled into my mouth. That's why he was there that night, when Mom died."

Chills washed over Dean. He'd known. Not this, exactly, but that his dad had known something he'd kept from Dean—something awful, about Sam.

Sam looked like he was bracing himself for Dean to hit him. Without realizing he meant to, Dean closed the distance between them. "Sammy."

Misery knitted Sam's brow. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"It's not your fault."

"I know, but—she died because of me. I'm sorry for that. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you the first time around. I should have."

He looked younger, watching Dean's face to see if he could accept it. He looked like Dean's Sam, the way he had when he'd first told Dean about his dreams. It hit Dean in a low, visceral way that this _was_ his Sam, no matter how many years and mistakes lay between them. "Yeah, well," he said gruffly. "We both got some work to do on that whole honesty thing."

Sam swallowed and nodded. "Yeah, we do." He sounded relieved. He studied Dean, hope creeping back into his expression. "I'm game if you are."

Dean let himself drink in the sight of his brother, whole and alive and as much of a pain in the ass as ever. "You're going to make me pinky swear, aren't you."

The laugh that escaped Sam sounded suspiciously close to tears. "I might."

"Figures." Dean sighed. "Get in the freaking car before I change my mind."

Sam got in.

* * *

Outside the dilapidated hunting cabin, Dean stopped and shut off the engine. He didn't get out.

"I got this one, Dean," Sam said, his voice low. "Let me do this."

But Dean shook his head. "No, Sammy." His throat closed, and he couldn't say any more. For three days, he'd been unable to face what had to be done, knowing in his heart that there was no way he could. He'd been ready to die first. To sell his soul to anyone who would take it just so he wouldn't have to stand there beside his little brother's pyre, breathing in the smoke and ash of his own failure. That was still Sam in there, and he'd still died because of Dean. Nothing could change that.

"Dean, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Blame yourself. I know you always did, but it was my fault."

Dean gave a harsh laugh. "How do you figure?"

"I turned my back on him. You and Dad—you taught me better than that. But I heard you call my name, and I forgot my training. I stood there like an idiot and let him take me."

"You could have changed it," Dean said, the question he'd been trying hard not to ask. "Gone back there instead. Warned him. Or me."

"I thought about it."

"So, why didn't you?"

"Because if it didn't play out the same way, if Jake didn't escape, then I wouldn't have known where Azazel would turn up next. Everything depends on that. If you don't kill him in Wyoming, then I won't be able to predict what happens next, and he could bring everything crashing down, maybe worse than before. I went over it a thousand times, Dean. This is the only way."

Dean digested that. "Wyoming, huh?"

"Yeah. That's where it all starts."

Dean drew a deep breath. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, and stole a look at Sam.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said. He opened his door. "Come on, let's do this."

It was Dean who lit the match. Sam's shoulder never wavered from Dean's, and when the flames rose at last to engulf the figure on the pyre, his hand slipped into Dean's without a word and held on, a promise that Dean clung to with all the strength he had.

 

* * *

"I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change."  
_—Sam, "All Hell Breaks Loose"_

* * *

 

~ fin ~


End file.
